“I don’t go thinking about my fears—hell, I don’t base my decisions on them.” He gives me a wink. “So the saying goes, there are two dogs barking over your shoulder, fear or determination. Which one wins? The one you feed. Never feed the dog who’s afraid.”

“But you’re feeding the dog that tells you relationships don’t last. That dog will always win until you stop feeding it.”

“Then I won’t. I’ll feed that dog plump and well.”

“You’re so stubborn, I pity the girls who fall even half in love with you.”

“Yourself included?”

I roll my eyes. “Oh definitely. I’m just pitying myself so hard right now because I will for sure die alone. Nobody’s wife and mother.”

“But very well made love to every night.”

I feel this awful blush run all over me.

What do you want from me?

“My friend Lisa,” I tell him. “She’s a girl I knew . . . well, she was like a sister for the brief time I knew her. She was Tahoe’s first girlfriend.” I feel pain when I remember the hurt my brother went through. “She died before she could even legally drink. It caused such an impact. I remember how pale she was in the end, and how weak, and how sad I was to imagine her not being able to live her life longer and experience more things. No matter how much her loved ones tried to bring happiness into those bleak white hospital walls, it was just . . . not meant to be. You can’t say that was her choice.”

“I’m not going to.” His expression softens. “I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” I watch our feet and then stop walking and turn to face him. “Tell me one fear of yours. One, Callan. Or I’ll never, ever talk to you again. You’re freaking inhuman.”

He laughs. “I’m so human. You have no idea.”

“Prove it.”

He scowls, but then we start walking again, and he says, “Being trapped.”

“You mean physically?”

“In any way, shape, or form. By the very things I want to have.”

“Hmm,” I say thoughtfully, the wheels spinning in my mind. “So is that why you can’t commit to one company? You just take what you want and drop it so you’re free to move on with no commitment or emotional investment in making it work. Takeovers.”

“Miss Roth,” he scoffs, tugging my ponytail, “I do nothing out of fear. I do it because I’m good at it. Because I can. Let’s not forget I’m the best at it.”

“Any person in the world can give a life or take it; it doesn’t mean you should.”

“All right then. Because it’s all I know. I don’t know how to do it differently.” His lips curl as he raises one inquiring eyebrow. “My brother and his roughhousing, remember?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, five years older is a lot when you’re five. I had to devise plans to get what he had and win the game without physically wrestling it from him.”

“It was your mode of survival. I’d like to meet this evil brother.”

“He’s not evil, he’s just a sibling; we were both fighting to be the alpha of the house.”

“Well, who won?”

“We’re still fighting it out.”

“Ha ha. I want to meet him, then.”

“I don’t want him to meet you.”

I flush at the possessiveness in his eyes. God. The way he pays attention makes me so self-conscious and aware of him.

“So he’s a bad boy, huh?”

“More like you could fire up holy water.”

We sit on a bench and sip on cold drinks. His words, though they make me giggle, tug at all of my heartstrings, and every inch of my sexy parts too.

“You have a way of opening me up,” I accuse.

He shifts forward on his elbows, glancing at me past his shoulder. “You have a way with me, period.”

“I’m not sure we should flirt; it’s not professional.”

“I agree, it’s not.” He nods somberly, his hazel eyes watching me.

“Well then, no flirting.”

“Miss that pink on your cheeks? I don’t think so. I’ll have some of that pink with an extra spoonful on the side, Miss Roth.”

“You’re a cad.”

“You like me best when I’m a cad.”

“I do not.”

“I can say anything right now, bring on the pink, and you will have a very hard time proving me wrong.”

“I pity the girls who fall for that. Losers, all of them. I’m not falling for that or you.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“What are you asking for?”

“Just time with you.” He gazes deeply into my eyes, and slowly, Callan lifts his brows at me.

I stare at the laces of my sneakers. I’m not sure he’s making a pass at me. I’m not sure of my own name.

He gets a phone call.

“Carmichael,” he answers. He motions with his head for us to leave, and I toss my empty water bottle into a nearby trash can and follow him to the Range Rover.

Several hours after Callan drops me off, he texts me at 9 p.m., making me cancel an evening plan with Wynn. He wants me at his home office. Lincoln is also there with a thousand printed pages of Callan’s new obsession. I’m kind of relieved Alcore is off the hook, and in a way, so am I, for having proposed it as ripe for takeover—for now.

At 11 p.m. Lincoln excuses himself to go home and recharge, leaving Callan and me poring over company documents.